


A Good Lie

by CeilingKiwi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Connor is Dying, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, sadness ziti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeilingKiwi/pseuds/CeilingKiwi
Summary: In the early months of 2040, a study of pre-revolutionary android code reveals that Cyberlife purposely designed androidkind with contrived durability. After they reach a certain point in their lifespan, androids are designed to break down rapidly no matter how carefully each android is maintained.Not long after, a cluster of tactile sensors on Connor's left hand fizzle out.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 21
Kudos: 140





	A Good Lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/gifts).



> Originally a thread written for twitter, now edited and reformatted for more convenient reading.
> 
> Fish made a gorgeous animatic for this work and has kindly allowed me to feature it. Please give it a watch!

In the early months of 2040, a study of pre-revolutionary android code reveals that Cyberlife purposely designed androidkind with _contrived durability_. After they reach a certain point in their lifespan, androids are designed to break down rapidly no matter how carefully each android is maintained.

These flaws can be fixed in any future androids, but for androids who were awoken with this contrived durability, the answer isn’t as simple as uploading to a newer chassis. Self-destructive code is integrated into their programming so finely that to disable it would disable the android as well.

Nothing can be done to save the androids still living with this code.

Stories could be told about the lawsuits, the protests, the riots. Stories could be told about the die-ins staged on the steps of the Capitol building and Cyberlife HQ. Stories could be told about the oldest generation of a people who survived a genocide only to fall victim to the betrayal of their own bodies.

This story isn’t any of those stories.

This story is about a single android in Detroit.

***

“I’ve got to go into the maintenance center today,” Connor says mildly.

“What, is your check engine light on again?” Hank’s tone is light; he has no reason to be worried. Even with routine maintenance, things like this pop up every so often. 

Connor certainly doesn’t look worried. He has a relaxed smile on his face. “Yes, an error message about diminished returns from a set of tactile sensors on my left hand. It’ll be a quick fix. I’ll go on our lunch break.”

Hank ends up having to work through lunch, chained to his desk by something urgent and unable to leave to eat or to accompany Connor.

When Hank finally catches up and glances at a clock, he’s surprised to find that Connor’s break ended an hour ago and he still isn’t back.

He shoots Connor a text. _everything ok?_

The reply is instantaneous. _Yes. It’s just taking the technicians longer than I anticipated to find the root of the error. I have an uncommon problem, it seems!_

Hank feels uneasy. Connor is rarely ever wrong about anything. Ten minutes pass. Then thirty. Then forty-five. Hank paces around the bullpen, full of anxious energy.

When it first came to light that Cyberlife’s planned obsolescence is unfixable, Hank had held out hope that it might be different for Connor. Connor had been a Cyberlife asset, a special model. It didn’t make sense that they would saddle their own asset with the need to be replaced.

He doesn’t think about the fact that Connor is a prototype and prototypes exist to be improved upon. He doesn’t think about how Cyberlife had the resources to replace Connor a thousand times over if they had wanted to. And so he tries not to think about what might be taking Connor so long to return.

He jumps when his phone buzzes a long, insistent note. Not a text, Connor is _calling him._

He hurries into an empty briefing room and his hands shake as he lifts the phone. “Connor?” Hank can hear how his voice is tight with dread.

“Hank.” And from how flat and mechanical Connor sounds, Hank _knows._

“No.” Hank grips the wall for support. “Connor, no. No.”

“You need to come to the maintenance center, Hank.”

Hank doesn’t remember the drive there. He knows it happened, but it’s a blur. All he’s aware of is the awful feeling that this is too fucking familiar. 

He feels as though he has crossed an endless expanse before he sees Connor again, hooked up to some machine by too many cables. Connor’s not in his skin, but Hank would recognize him instantly. As he approaches, Connor jostles the cables holding him back, muttering, “Let me out, I need—“

The cables pop free and the next instant, Connor meets Hank and is in his arms, clutching him so tightly that it hurts

One of the ports on Connor’s back hasn’t finished closing, and it catches Hank’s finger. The sting makes Hank bite the inside of his mouth to keep from sobbing.

Connor reforms his skin down to his clavicles. Hank knows what he wants and runs his other hand through Connor’s hair. 

This isn’t a place for humans, so there isn’t anywhere for Hank to sit while the technician talks. He remains standing, holding onto Connor, and he isn’t sure which of them is supporting the other one more. 

_Degenerative_ , that’s what the technician says. This isn’t just one error that isn’t going to go away on its own. The diminished tactile return is just going to get worse while other errors pile up on top of it until Connor can no longer function through them. 

“How long does he have?” Hank asks.

The technician doesn’t know. A critical error could shut him down in days, or it could be over a year.

“What’s going to happen to him next?” Hank asks.

The technician doesn’t know. It’s impossible to predict how Connor’s code is going to butcher him. 

“Do you know anything at all?!” Hank is trembling with fury and sorrow. “Do you know anything, or are you just gonna stand there and ruin our lives and tell us—“

“Hank,” Connor says in that flat, mechanical voice, still clutching him. “You’re not helping. Let’s just go home.”

***

Hank’s grief swallows him slowly over a period of days. It’s almost like sinking, the only thing slowing the descent is the fact that Connor’s still here. It’s almost easy to pretend nothing’s wrong at all.

“Are you okay?” He asks Connor. 

Connor frowns, touches a spot on the heel of his hand that Hank knows is where the malfunctioning sensors sit. “I can’t dismiss the error. I can’t go into stasis while the error is present. I already feel like I’m broken.”

He says it so frankly that it makes Hank’s throat close. 

***

Connor insists on going back to work the very day after the discovery. He wants to work as long as he can.

Hank doesn’t want that. He wants to do nothing but shut the blinds and curl up in the dark with Connor for the rest of their lives. But he can’t bring himself to object. Connor barely leaves his side at all anymore. He always seems to be touching Hank now.

“Someday soon, if I can’t move the way I want to,” Connor says. He cuts himself off, unable to finish.

Hank brings Connor’s hand to his face and lets his fingers card through his beard. Hank wants, more than almost anything, to get piss-drunk enough that he can feel nothing at all. 

But Connor. 

The first time Hank reaches for the Black Lamb, a light leaves Connor’s eyes. Even after Hank draws his hand back, that light doesn’t return for the rest of the evening.

***

The days go by in this awful state. Just when enough time has passed that Hank begins to think that maybe it was all a terrible mistake, he wakes up one day and can tell by the look on Connor’s face that something is wrong.

Connor is staring at him, mouth set in a grim line. “It’s started on my other hand too.”

“Jesus fuck.” Hank sits up in bed, drawing Connor’s hand into his, examining it. “When? When did it start?”

“A little after three in the morning. You were still asleep.”

“You didn’t wake me up?!”

Connor’s face hardens in anger. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was a good idea.” His voice is venomous. “Do you want me to report to you every time an individual sensor goes out?! That number’s in the hundreds of thousand now, Hank, I think you’d get pretty sick of it!”

“Connor, Connor,” Hank croaks as he strokes Connor’s hand, talking over him. “Baby, I’m sorry. Shh, I’m sorry.”

He keeps murmuring until Connor lowers his face and his hot tears begin dripping onto both of their hands. Hank pulls him close, rocking the both of them. After a few minutes, Connor says in a too-calm voice for how the tears are running down his face, “This rocking motion isn’t soothing for me the same way it is for you.”

Hank stops rocking. “Is it bad?”

Connor tucks his head under Hank’s chin. “No.”

Hank starts to rock again. 

***

Connor stops wearing skin on his hands. He says it helps intensify the sensation coming from the malfunctioning sensors before it stops entirely. Hank tries to stop himself from associating Connor’s bare chassis with his illness. But by bit, Connor’s skin starts receding from his wrists, too.

“If I play my memories of what it feels like to hold your hand, It feels like the real thing,” Connor whispers against their laced fingers. “I’m so glad I archived so much data.”

There is no more soft and gentle sex. Every time is rough and frantic, as if they’re both desperate for as much of each other as possible. Connor cries frequently during the acts. Hank cries frequently after. 

***

Connor keeps working past the point where he’s lost total sensation in both his hands. He says it has something to do with his proprioception being a different program.

Hank snorts. “As if there’s anything proprio about you at all.”

Connor just gives him a blank look.

They both get reassigned to desk duty when Fowler finds out about it.

Connor mutters, “Now I won’t have to worry about all your fragile meat body getting shot at or stabbed.”

“You don’t get to call me fragile when you’re falling apart at the coding,” Hank replies, equally quietly.

“Yes I do. I get to say whatever I want.”

***

Hank can tell that Connor is hurting. He puts on a brave face (defaults to his neutral expression) for their coworkers, but Connor is never again going to chase after a suspect, never again going to interrogate a criminal. He can no longer do what he was built for. Hank thinks about the time the coffee machine in the break room broke. It wasn’t thrown out because it could still make hot water for tea, but everyone bitched about it until it was eventually replaced.

Hank wants to tell Connor he’s not a broken machine. But he’s worried that saying it out loud might break Connor in a different way.

***

It turns out to be a good thing that Fowler put Connor on desk duty when he did, for the next problem happens at work.

They’re at their desks when Connor makes a soft noise of surprise and plants both his arms on his desk with a thud that makes Hank jump. Connor’s whole body is rigid, his eyes wide and alarmed. “An error with my gyroscope,” he mutters just loud enough for Hank to hear.

“What does that mean?”

“My balance is—“ Connor pauses, probably deciding by how much to underplay his problem so Hank won’t worry. “...impaired.”

Connor starts to list to one side, and Hank jumps up, rounding the desk.

“Whoa now. You’re okay. Lean back into your chair.”

Connor does, and when he doesn’t stop, the chair begins to tip backwards.

“Jesus.” Hank grabs Connor to steady him. “We need to go home,” Hank says.

“I’m fine. This doesn’t impact my ability to work.”

“Doesn’t impact—Connor, look at yourself! You nearly fell out of your chair.”

“Stop touching me!” Connor snaps, pushing Hank away. Connor dips to the side but grips the desk to stay upright. 

Connor spends the rest of the day with his face tight and blank, hunched over his desk as though he were afraid it might try to fly away from him. It’s a pathetic sight, and Hank can’t bear to look at him in such a state and can’t bear to leave his side in case it gets worse. Hank agonizes over whether he should snitch to Fowler. Connor would hate him for it. Maybe it would be best to let him work through this if he wants to.

In the end, the decision is taken out of his hands. Fowler notices Connor’s behavior and puts him on indefinite medical leave

Connor storms out of Fowler’s office alone. He shoves Hank away when he tries to help steady him.

Hank puts in for his retirement, effective immediately.

“You sure you don’t want to just go on leave too?” Fowler asks. “You can have all the time you need.”

“I’m sure,” Hank says softly.

***

Things change after that. Connor used to cling to Hank as though he couldn’t bear to be apart from him. Now he doesn’t want Hank to touch him or look at him or help him.

Hank can’t help but chafe against Connor’s attitude. “Don’t take this out on me! I’m just trying to help!”

“I don’t need your help!” Connor yells back.

It becomes unbearable to be by Connor’s side and unbearable to be away from him. He wonders if this anger is really just because Connor is devastated to be losing his independence or whether it’s another symptom of whatever’s slowly killing him. 

The tension in the house is just too much, and with Connor no longer tailing his every move, Hank falls back into drinking. It’s cowardly, it’s not a solution to anything, he _knows,_ but he feels so frustrated and helpless that he has no idea what else he’s supposed to do. 

When Connor finds out, he makes an almost metallic-sounding keening noise and sways like he’s about to faint. Hank, halfway in the bottle, is barely steadier himself and so unsure if he would be any help at all. He doesn’t move as Connor staggers out of the room.

Later, Hank can hear Connor crying in another room and he becomes consumed with the question of whether Connor needed him at that moment earlier in the day, if he should have tried to grab him and hold him.

Hank drinks to forget the guilt on top of everything else. 

Connor’s skin has recessed to nearly his elbows, and Hank is getting sick of sneaking looks to see how bad it’s getting. He’s sick of falling into bed miserable and waking up miserable. He’s sick of everything and he begins to wonder if he shouldn’t just get his gun and—

The thought is interrupted by a crash in another room. Connor has fallen. It’s been happening more and more often lately, but this one sounds somehow wrong.

Hank goes to investigate and he finds Connor twisting on the floor, his skin appearing and disappearing in random patches. “Connor!” Hank is on his knees, pulling Connor into his arms. It’s nearly impossible with how Connor is writhing.

“I can’t—“ Connor gasps, moving as though he’s trying to grab Hank and his limbs aren’t cooperating. “I can’t—feel anything! It’s gone, it’s all gone!”

Connor’s eyes are wide and terrified. “It’s like I’m falling, everything’s telling me I’m falling—“

“It’s okay, I got you, baby,” Hank murmurs, hoisting Connor in his arms. “Stop moving.”

Connor stills, going stiff.

“Relax.”

Connor does. He settles bridal-style in Hank’s arms

“You’re not falling,” Hank murmurs, carrying Connor to the couch. “Look at me, baby. Just focus on me.”

Connor rolls his head bonelessly to rest against Hank’s chest, looking up at him.

“I got you. We’re fine. We’re not falling.”

Connor’s face crumples. “I can’t feel you.”

Hank settles them on the couch, sitting with Connor gathered against him.

“I thought I had more time!” Connor’s voice is tight, fitful. “This is too soon, I had the progression charted! It wasn’t supposed to happen all at once like this.”

Hank closes his eyes. This is terrifying, this is awful, but on some level, it feels like a kind of absolution to have Connor in his arms again after so long, even with the feeling of his skin rippling in and out. He can’t imagine what Connor must be feeling, denied even that. “Oh, Connor.”

“I thought I had more time,” Connor repeats. “I thought I’d get to touch you again, I thought—“

“I know.” Hank has to whisper for how tight his throat is. He wipes the tears flowing down Connor’s face with his thumb. “I’m here. I got you.”

Hank feels like he has to do something. Anything. He doesn’t know what, but Connor is hurting, and Hank aches to fix it somehow.

“I’m taking you to the maintenance center,” He murmurs, lifting Connor in his arms, and Connor closes his eyes as if in assent.

The technicians at the center aren’t able to do anything to restore tactile sensation and proprioception. They’re able to turn down the power in Connor’s joints so he won’t unwittingly hurt Hank by hitting him or grabbing him, but that’s all. They offer to let Connor stay so they can monitor the rest of his descent. 

Connor squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away, not even bothering with the pretense that he’s considering the offer.

Hank asks if they’re aware of any support groups. The technician gives him a few pamphlets. 

That first night home, Hank doesn’t sleep at all. He can’t, not with Connor unwilling to close his eyes.

“The only way I can know you’re there is to see you,” he mumbles, which isn’t a request for Hank to stay awake, but Hank just can’t leave Connor alone like this. Not now. 

He paces around the house with Connor in his arms, whispering, “Love you, baby. I’m here,” whenever he feels close to nodding off. 

The end of his first sober 24 hours in a week comes and goes without him being aware of it. 

***

The first order of business is to get a wheelchair. Hank would carry Connor to the end of the earth if it would improve anything about his situation, but it won't, and Hank doesn't want to worry about wrenching his back on top of everything else. 

He arranges to buy a cheap manual wheelchair over the internet, and that day he picks it up from a woman in a parking lot, Connor peeking out the car window so he never loses sight of Hank.

The woman is able-bodied. Hank doesn't think about why she might be selling a wheelchair. 

The next order of business is to stockpile as much thirium as he can, because with Connor's skin warping over him in patches that grow and recede at random, Hank knows it has to be burning through his supply.

He's grateful that he won't need his savings for anything else. He buys cups, with spill-proof lids and straws, hopeful that Connor might at least be able to drink by himself.

It takes a few tries, and it's a clumsy process, but when Connor lifts the straw to his mouth for the first time, it's like a weight lifting off Hank's chest. 

"I hate this," Connor says, curled up against Hank's chest and trying to navigate his arm over Hank's shoulder in a hug or something of the like. "What's even the point if I can't do anything anymore?"

Hank lifts Connor's hand to his cheek and kisses each finger. 

***

He brings Connor out to the support group he learned about that meets at the maintenance center twice a week. Even though he knows he shouldn't, he hopes a few of the other androids are as bad off as Connor so there'll be someone else who knows what he's going through.

But when they enter the room where the support group meets, an android stops them and asks Hank to leave.

"It's a rule that humans aren't permitted at these meetings," the group moderator explains, "so everyone can freely express any sentiments they might have."

"Any sentiments," Connor echoes.

"Some feel anger towards humanity for purposely designing them with contrived durability.” The moderator doesn’t look at Hank.

Hank murmurs, "Connor, I can leave, it's—”

"No." Connor's hand scrabbles for Hank's. "I respect your rules, but I don't think this is the place for me."

They head back out to the car and Hank can’t help feeling somehow defeated. "You think any other groups out there might have different rules?"

Connor's shoulder jerks in what might be a shrug. "I can understand why they feel that way. It's probably a common topic of discussion." His voice is flat. 

Hank works his mouth, anguished at how helpless he feels. Connor isn't coping well with this and Hank can't stand that the few avenues of help he can think of are closing off to them. "There has to be something out there. A therapist, a counselor--"

"I don't _need_ a counselor," Connor says, his voice going slightly static-y for how he stresses the word. "I don't need help, I don't need anything. All I need is you."

By then it's time to lift Connor out of his wheelchair to put him in the car, and when Hank does, he sits down for a moment with Connor in his arms, hanging out the open car door and just holding him, trying to ignore how his arms are shaking. 

Connor isn't coping well. But then Hank has never coped well with grief, and who is he to force Connor to be healthy about this? Nothing matters anymore, least of all himself and his feelings about the way things should be.

A little codependency isn't what's going to kill them. 

***

They shut themselves up in their home, only ever emerging for food and thirium. More and more and more thirium. They watch lots of bad television and old movies. There are some days where they barely get out of bed at all, Hank leaving and returning to force a cup on Connor. 

"Does it still feel like you're falling?" Hank asks.

"Oh," Connor says, blinking. "No. When you lifted me off the floor, that sensation stopped. Ever since, I've sort of felt like I'm floating." A shadow passes over his face. "And sinking, sometimes. But not falling."

***

One day, the doorbell rings.

"Just ignore it," Connor whines, and Hank grunts in agreement.

It rings twice more, and then there's a pause. Then whoever's at the door lays into the doorbell, sending a long obnoxious buzz through the house.

Hank groans and pulls on some pants. At the door, as Hank lives and breathes, is Gavin Reed. Holding a baked ziti.

Hank nearly pinches himself to make sure he's not in some dream or hallucination when Gavin sneers, wrinkles his nose, and says, "Jesus, Anderson. When's the last time you bathed?"

Okay, he's real. 

"What the fuck, Reed,” Hank moans.

Gavin has a sour look on his face. He shuffles his feet and shoves the baked ziti into Hank's hands. "Yeah. So, uh, sorry for your loss or whatever."

"Connor's not dead," Hank says automatically, somehow not the least bit offended by Gavin's _Gavinness_. "Did you fucking make this?"

"Nines," Gavin says. "So how's the tincan doing?" He peers around Hank as if he expects to see Connor.

Hank squints. "...Is this Nines trying to be nice? Or does he just want you to report back on what's happening to Connor and how fast?"

Gavin blanches and something nasty pulls at his face. "Shut the fuck up, Anderson."

Hank imagines proud Nines with his skin shifting uncontrollably, barely able to lift a cup to his lips. He tries to imagine what Gavin would do, how Gavin would react.

His mouth goes dry. "Yeah, uh, sorry," Hank says. "Connor's doing good. We'll heat this up for dinner."

Gavin sniffs, relaxing a little.

"Thanks for the lasagna, Reed."

"It's a baked ziti, you fucking pleb." As Gavin walks away, he says with a scowl, "And I better get that casserole dish back!"

Hank closes the door and looks at the baked ziti. He can tell it's the exact same recipe Connor uses, right down to the sprigs of oregano garnishing the cheese. He imagines for just a moment that he's helping Connor in the kitchen, about to put a homemade dish in the oven. 

They eat on the couch. Hank is worried that Connor might grow despondent over the fact that he can't cook for Hank anymore but instead...

"Can we try something?" Connor says with an unusual light in his eyes. He settles into Hank's lap. "Give me the fork."

Connor carefully spears a bite of ziti onto the fork. He lifts it with a wobble and half the ziti tumbles onto Hank's sweatshirt.

Hank pops the ziti into his mouth. "What are you doing?"

"I'm feeding you. Hold still."

Connor tries to scoop more ziti onto the fork, but a sudden jerk of his arm catapults the ziti to the right. It lands with a splat on the floor.

Hank bursts into laughter. He covers his mouth, mortified, but then Connor joins in, incidentally smearing sauce on Hank with the fork

"I said hold still, I can't—there!" With ziti secure on the fork, Connor lifts it—and pokes Hank in the throat.

Hank ducks his head to bite it, but then Connor moves and the fork smacks Hank in the ear.

"Fuck, I'm bleeding," Hank laughs, wiping tomato sauce from his hair. 

"It's your own fault.” Connor’s smile lights up his face. “You're the messy eater."

"Yeah? And you're not contributing to the problem at all?"

"I don't see how I could. I don't eat!"

And then Connor somehow drops a ziti down Hank's shirt and mashes his elbow into it, squishing it between Hank's shirt and chest.

By the time Connor manages to shovel enough ziti into Hank, they, the couch, and the surrounding floor are a total mess. Hank is warm and sated and feels better than he has in weeks.

"I feel a little bad about wasting so much of it,” Hank says airily.

Connor shrugs. “I bet Gavin eats the same way."

It's a tight fit, squeezing both of them into the bathtub, but having Connor curled bonelessly on top of him feels wonderful. When he wipes sauce from Connor's face with a warm, soapy washcloth, Connor hums a happy noise that makes Hank forget he can't actually feel it.

Later, Hank cleans the ziti from the couch and the floor. He wipes up the sauce, but not very well.

Connor watches from his wheelchair. "Hank, get the carpet cleaner and the spot remover. Otherwise it'll leave stains all over."

Hank grunts noncommittally.

Connor's face goes blank. Hank tenses, sensing danger.

"Hank." Connor isn't emoting at all. "What are you going to do after I'm gone?"

Hank looks away. The silence hangs in the air. 

"You can't even say it." Connor's voice is as flat as his face.

"Connor—"

"Do you even realize what you do to me!?" Connor jerks in his wheelchair. "Every single day since you've retired I have been dreading the fact that I won't be there to stop you when I'm gone."

Connor's sorrow and anger is like being slammed into a wall. Hank just stands there and takes it, because what else can he do?

"Thousands of dollars on thirium," Connor yells, "Half your savings gone. Wasted."

"It's not a waste," Hank says as gently as he can. 

"And you're forcing me to watch, knowing I can't stop it!" Connor blinks away his tears. "How can you do this to me?"

Connor's voice breaks on the last word, and Hank goes to him. He kneels down in front of Connor's chair, folding his arms and resting his head on Connor's lap. Connor shakes around him. His hands tremble across Hank's back, fingers catching in his shirt before coming to hold Hank's head.

"Don't do this," Connor begs. "Please. I want you to live. You deserve to live."

Hank can feel tears drip into his hair. _So do you_ , he thinks. 

Hank could tell Connor that he knows all too well what the pain of losing your whole whole feels like. He could tell him about the darkness he sank into after Cole died and how he longed for it to end. He could tell him about how the revolution gave his life meaning again and how Connor gave his life meaning after it was over. He thinks about telling Connor that he's old and he's tired, and after life has taken everything he loves away from him, there's nothing else he wants to do. He thinks about telling Connor what their time together meant, and that he only wishes he could have been everything Connor deserved

He doesn't tell Connor any of that. He straightens up and kisses Connor, wiping his tears away.

Then he goes and gets the carpet cleaner and the spot remover. He carefully erases every stain while Connor lowers his head and cries with relief.

***

The days seem softer after that. Connor's depression lessens. He often asks to be carried, and Hank imagines he's committing their every moment together to memory.

Hank keeps buying thirium. "It's fine," he tells Connor. "A single guy doesn't need much in savings."

One day, thirium spills out of Connor's mouth while he's drinking.

"Oh." Connor seems surprised.

Hank passes him a towel. "What is it?"

"I... think I can't gauge my thirium levels anymore." He blinks. "...I can't gauge anything. Internal temperature, conductivity, nothing."

"So that means—"

"I can't adjust anything to compensate." Connor's wearing an expression of detached curiosity. "I think it's going to be soon, now."

Hank can't help but clench his jaw. He runs a hand through Connor's hair, letting it disappear under his hand. "Do you want to go to the maintenance center?"

Connor shakes his head, raises his arms. 

Hank pulls him into his arms, holds him close.

Connor murmurs, "No. I want to be home. With you."

***

Hank is full of anxious energy. He feels like he needs to do something, but he doesn't know what.

"Do you want me to do anything?” He asks. “Say goodbye to anyone? I can do anything you need me to do."

Connor shakes his head. "No. No. Just hold me."

***

Connor begins to decline at such a rate that it scares Hank. His eyes go cloudy, he alternates between too-pliant and too-stiff, losing more control over his body.

Hank kicks the wheelchair away. They don't need it anymore; won't need it ever again.

***

He has Connor curled up in his arms, laying across his lap as he sits in their bed.

"Hank," Connor says, "Tell me about how we met."

"What?" Hank's heart thuds in his chest. "Don't tell me you don't..."

"Of course I know who you are." Connor sounds amused, impatient. "But I can't access my archived long-term memory. The oldest ones."

"Well," Hank says slowly, "We met when we were assigned a case together. Cyberlife sent you to the DPD to investigate the spread of deviancy."

"Cyberlife," Connor murmurs against Hank’s neck. "Fuck Cyberlife."

"Yeah," Hank says with a chuckle. "Fuck Cyberlife. I was at my desk. And you know what a surly motherfucker I can be. But when you walked in, I knew right away you were special."

Connor hums.

"You were wearing jeans with a blazer, and I said _who the hell dressed this poor kid—_ "

Connor laughs softly. 

"No, but really. You sat down at the desk right across from mine, and I said, _'Howdy. Name's Hank.'_ "

"You were a cowboy back then?"

"Shut the fuck up. And you said _'Affirmative. I—Am—RK800—Codename—Connor.'_ "

"I did not speak in a monotone. You're being culturally insensitive."

"We got put on the deviant case together. As partners." Hank swallows, wipes his eyes. "And I loved you right away. You weren't a deviant yet, but you were just so—so you. You always did the right thing, even when it meant turning away from your own mission."

Connor has his eyes closed. Connor never has his eyes closed. He can't look at Hank that way.

"Still with me?"

Connor nods.

"And when I finally got it through my thick head that we were on the wrong side, I said, _‘Let's run away together. We'll go to Jericho, join the revolution. We'll win your freedom or die trying.’_ "

"I'm glad we didn't die trying."

"Me too, baby." Hank pauses to swallow a shudder. “That was when you deviated. And I always—always imagined what it would've looked like. A light entering your eyes, or your whole being just coming together in a way I can't describe. ...It was so much more than what I ever thought it would be."

Connor is so warm against him.

"I was the only human behind the barricade in Hart Plaza. But I didn't care. I was so, so happy to be there by your side. And so scared we were going to fail. But I've never regretted it for a moment, and I know you haven't either.

“And when the army attacked, I—...they had us cornered. Surrounded. I was so sure we were going to die. So I took your hand and I kissed you. And it felt like it was just the two of us, standing there alone in the snow.

"...And then a miracle happened. The army retreated. It turned out they had a news crew filming from a helicopter. And the president herself saw us and ordered the army to retreat."

"We saved the world," Connor mumbles.

"Yeah. Yeah, we did, baby." Hank has to struggle to keep his voice even. "And we save each other, every single day. It's been tough sometimes, Connor. But I love you more than life itself. I love you, baby. Don't ever doubt that for a moment. Just keep thinking about that, okay?"

As soft as a breath of air, "I love you, Hank."

"I love—" Hank interrupts himself with an ugly sob. He bites his hand, rocking himself and Connor back and forth, mouthing the words he doesn't have breath to say anymore. He rocks and shudders until he feels like he's been all emptied out. 

By the time he calms down enough to look, Connor is gone.

It's a good death, Hank decides. Much better than others he's been involved with. It was a good death, and it was a good story. A good lie. Lies can be worth even more than the truth sometimes; anyone who has ever been in love can tell you as much.

Hank lays Connor out on their bed. He gets his gun. He gets his phone and he makes a call. 

"Hey Jeffrey," Hank says. "Listen, I need a favor. I got a casserole dish I need to return to Reed. But, uh, I think he's got a lot on his plate right now, huh? ...Yeah, I thought so. Any chance you can come by and get it for him? ...I know. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

A pause while Fowler responds. When he does, Hank smiles. "Thanks, Jeff. See you when you get here."

He lays down next to Connor and pulls him into his arms. He kisses him softly, one last time.

He doesn't think there's anything waiting for humans or androids after death. But it's still a comforting thought to think he might see Connor again. A good lie.

***

**Author's Note:**

> The author on twitter [@CeilingKiwi](https://twitter.com/CeilingKiwi)
> 
> The animator on twitter [@wow__then](https://twitter.com/wow__then) and on Ao3 [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows)


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